Chapter 6
six
. . .
Tansy
The first thing I notice is the scent.
Lavender smoke, warm moss, and something faintly sweet …
like cedar soaked in sun, if that makes any sense.
I breathe it in before I even open my eyes, the scent curling around my ribs, loosening the knots in my spine.
My fingers twitch against the blanket. It's soft.
No, softer than soft. Like petal lining. Like magic spun into fleece.
I blink awake slowly.
I’m curled on a bed that looks grown, not built.
Its headboard is a weave of living vines and pale wood that hums beneath my palm.
Tiny purple flowers are threaded through the frame, blooming sleepily in the morning light that spills in through an open window.
There’s a tea cup on the stool beside me.
Steam still curls from it.
She made me tea.
I sit up too quickly, the blanket falling around my hips, and immediately regret it. The movement jostles my satchel to the floor, spilling half its contents, a honey jar, my charm bracelet, and two spell rings onto the moss-lined rug.
I freeze.
But no one snaps. Nothing scolds.
I wait for the reprimand that never comes, the lecture about boundaries or sacred spaces or protocol. Instead, a soft breeze rustles the herbs hanging in bundles from the ceiling.
It’s quiet.
Warm.
Safe.
I creep out of bed with the caution of someone who expects the floor to judge her, but even the planks under my feet feel welcoming. They’re smooth and warm and give the faintest groan, like they’re amused rather than annoyed. The air tastes like sage and sugar.
I pad across the room slowly.
The cottage is … beautiful.
Not in the grand, symmetrical way my family home was. This place is full of nooks and textures and curves. There are no sharp corners. Just swooping shelves carved into tree trunk walls, windows round as acorn caps, and ivy strewn beams that stretch like they’re still growing.
Books are stacked in spirals beside the hearth. Jars glow faintly along the counter, filled with tinctures and tiny scrolls. A kettle rests over the fire, silver and squat, its sides etched with curling vine motifs.
My fingers itch.
I move toward the shelf of teas, because of course she has one, and immediately start organizing. I don’t even mean to. It’s just instinct. The jars are labeled with handwritten symbols in ink the color of mulberries, sorted in no discernible order.
I hum under my breath.
“OK, but why is the nettle next to the lemon balm?” I murmur to myself, nose scrunching as I shuffle jars. “And why are there three jars for chamomile, but none for mint?”
I find mint eventually. It’s stored in a pale green tin painted with a sleeping fox. Of course it is.
I get so caught up recategorizing the herbs by mood (comforting, clearing, chaos inducing), that I don’t realize the kettle is boiling until it starts … singing.
Not whistling. Singing.
A clear, flutelike trill echoes through the cottage, spiraling into a dreamy little melody that I definitely didn’t intend to happen.
I yelp. “Oh no.”
I clap a hand over the spout, which only makes it sing louder. “Shh! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to enchant you!”
The kettle purrs as it settles back to silence, almost smug. I step back, mortified, muttering, “OK, new rule, no touching things before tea.”
“Not a bad rule.”
I spin.
Solenne stands in the doorway.
She’s holding a bundle of herbs and watching me like I’m a particularly interesting cloud that just appeared in her sky. Her hair is mussed from the wind, petals tangled through the strands. Her dress, some kind of linen wrap dyed in mossy green, clings to her like it’s part of the forest.
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
“I was just—sorry, I … your shelves were out of order and the mint was sleeping in a fox tin, which is adorable, but impractical, and then the kettle started singing and—”
Solenne raises one brow.
I take a breath.
“I haven’t had tea yet.”
“Clearly.”
She crosses the room in near silence, placing the herbs on the counter and lifting the enchanted kettle with the ease of someone who expects everything around her to behave.
She pours herself a mug, mine left by the bed, still steaming gently, and sets hers on the vine-carved table in the center of the room.
I grab my tea, moving to join her.
We sit.
The tea is perfectly steeped. Chamomile, lavender, and something floral I can’t name. It’s like drinking a nap in sunlight.
I sip in silence for a while, trying not to fidget too much. Solenne doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t seem uncomfortable. Just … present. Grounded. Like silence is a language she’s fluent in.
Eventually, I can’t help myself. I glance around the room again, fingers trailing over the carved table’s edge. “I didn’t know places like this existed.”
Solenne lifts her gaze to mine.
“They don’t,” she says. “Not until someone asks for them.”